


Pining for You

by earlgreytea68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has a pine tree that Arthur really wants. And that is not a euphemism. Well, not *entirely.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a Hallmark Christmas movie fic for the "Sherlock" fandom and I thought, "Aww, I should write one for Inception as well!" So here you go! 
> 
> Unbeta'd because I am in the middle of a 28-hour-trip to go a thousand miles (the magic of modern air travel!) so I'm posting this in the middle of O'Hare in an attempt to cheer myself up. Thank you to involuntaryorange and uppityumbrella for tech support in trying to get around O'Hare's 30-minutes-of-wifi limitation (I've been here four hours! C'mon, O'Hare!). Thank you to caitalicia for the title. And thank you to all of you on Twitter dealing with me over the past two days. ::massive hugs to all of you::

Chapter One

“That one,” said Dominick Cobb, with the shining eyes that Arthur recognized. Arthur called that look the _Arthur’s life is about to become a living hell_ look. 

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” groaned Ariadne. 

“What?” Arthur said suspiciously. “Why? What’s the matter with the tree?” 

“Tracking down the owner is impossible,” said Ariadne. 

“What are you talking about? The tree’s on someone’s land, right? Find out who the someone is, go and throw money at them.” 

Cobb made a pained sound. “When you say it like that, Arthur, you make it sound like we don’t have any _finesse_.” 

“We don’t have any finesse.” 

“Why wouldn’t he just donate the tree?” Ariadne asked. “They usually just donate them.” 

“Naturally that would be best,” Arthur agreed. “But it’s late in the game to still be searching for a tree, so if we have to pay, we’re going to pay.”

“We have finesse,” Cobb said. 

“What?” asked Arthur blankly. 

“You said we don’t have finesse. We have finesse.” 

“Mal has finesse. You don’t have finesse.” 

“Arthur’s ties have finesse,” Ariadne remarked thoughtfully. 

“My entire wardrobe has finesse,” Arthur said, offended, “not just my ties.”

“Hang on,” Cobb said, sounding wounded. “You really don’t think I have finesse?” 

“You have anti-finesse,” Arthur told him. 

“I really resent that. You know what? Just for that, I’m going to make this your job.” 

“You were going to make this my job anyway,” said Arthur, resigned. 

“Just because you are the best, Arthur. Track the guy down and buy his tree.” 

“How do you know it’s a guy?” said Arthur. “It could be a woman.” 

“I agree,” said Ariadne. “That was sexist.” 

“Whoever it is,” said Cobb. “I hope he’s patriotic.” 

***

“Patriotic,” grumbled Arthur to himself, wading through knee-deep snow. What the _fuck_. Why couldn’t Yusuf and Ariadne find tree candidates that weren’t in the middle of fucking nowhere, with knee-deep snow in fucking November, and Arthur couldn’t even drive up to the house he’d found in the satellite pictures because there was no road. 

Clearly Ronald Berry was a man who didn’t want to be found. It had taken Arthur a lot of skillful digging to wade through the mess of the land titles and then to track down this incredibly inaccessible log cabin. A lesser person than Arthur would never have found Ronald Berry. So Arthur didn’t think this boded particularly well for Ronald being flattered at the honorific of providing the tree for Saito Center. 

“America’s fucking Christmas tree,” grumbled Arthur, which was probably why he didn’t notice the sudden drop-off in the ground level. With an ungraceful _oof_ , Arthur found himself somersaulting his way down the short slope. When he finally came to a stop, the world was slightly dizzy around him, the snow had soaked through the wool greatcoat he was wearing and had gotten underneath the Burberry scarf he’d knotted around his neck, and the worst part—the _very worst part_ —was that a deeply amused British voice said, “Well, hello. Alright there, love?”

***

Eames was bored beyond belief. This was the problem with running for your life. It wasn’t as exciting as it sounded. It was usually nothing but waiting. And this waiting involved being holed up in some middle-of-nowhere cabin playing poker against himself and making his way through the thoroughly awful liquor supply he’d located. Ronald Berry had had terrible taste in alcohol. Eames had lost all respect for the man. 

Eames sighed in heavy self-pity and that was when he noticed the approach of the man on the security camera he’d rigged along the most likely approach from the main road. The man was wrapped in an expensive coat that was thoroughly inappropriate for a hike. Eames leaned closer to the screen, squinting in astonishment. And…wingtips? Was he wearing _wingtips_? In all of that snow? Where had he come from? What would possess someone to do something so ridiculous? 

Eames considered his options. There was a possibility that this was a hitman sent to kill him. If that was the case, Eames was offended that he hadn’t rated a better hitman than this man who’d shown up in city clothes to wade through snow. 

But Eames didn’t know why else the man would have wandered out here, if not to kill him. It wasn’t like Eames was somewhere you accidentally happened upon. 

Eames tucked his gun into his pants and pulled on his weather-appropriate jacket and headed out into the snow to meet the mysterious visitor. He was confident that he could startle him and get out the first shot, if it came to that. Except that what happened instead was Eames was just in time for the man to come snowballing his way down the hill, landing in a sprawl at Eames’s feet. 

An oddly elegant sprawl, Eames thought. The man was all clean lines, sharp and distinct against the snow, and he blinked dark eyes up at Eames, and Eames had a sudden, clear desire to…make this man fuzzier. Odd and inconvenient, that. Eames chalked it up to sensory deprivation. There hadn’t been much opportunity for instant attraction out here in the woods. Eames hadn’t seen anything alive but deer in a while. And deer didn’t do it for him. 

But it was the unmistakable effect of the attraction that softened Eames’s tone into amusement when he said, “Well, hello. Alright there, love?” 

The man glared up at him. “Fine,” he grumbled, and sat up and started brushing snow off of himself. 

And Eames couldn’t stop smiling. Eames had been alone too long. How was this man the most adorable thing he’d ever seen? “The snow cushioned your fall,” Eames said helpfully. 

“The snow caused my fall,” the man shot back, looking around at it disdainfully. 

“Here, darling,” Eames said, and offered his hand. 

The man took it but kept glaring balefully the whole way up. Then he swept his hair back and tugged his crooked coat back to straightness and looked at Eames regally. 

Eames grinned at him. If this man was a hitman, Eames genuinely could not think of a better way to die. “Are you going to ask me if I’ve accepted our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” 

“No,” said the man, scowling. 

“Good. I didn’t want to have to disappoint you.” 

“Do you know where Ronald Berry lives?” the man asked. 

Eames stilled and studied this stranger a little more closely. “Ronald Berry?” 

“Yes. Ever heard of him?” 

“Why?” 

The man sighed. “For a stupid reason.” 

“Like what?” Eames prodded. 

“He has to save Christmas,” the man said dully. 

Eames stared at him. “He has to what?” 

The man shook his head. “Never mind. See what I mean? It’s stupid. I don’t want to have to go through it more than once. So if you could direct me to where Ronald Berry lives…” The man gave Eames an expectant look and clearly tried to pretend he wasn’t shivering. 

Eames looked at him and decided he’d never met anyone he wanted to keep talking to more than he wanted to keep talking to this sodden, well-dressed man who wanted him to save Christmas. He said, “I’m Ronald Berry.” 

***

Arthur blinked at the man in front of him. He was bundled up for the weather, but his face was clearly visible, and he had a pair of frankly obscene lips and very bright blue-green eyes and tousled hair and a perfect amount of rakish stubble. Arthur had found Ronald Berry and Ronald Berry was apparently blisteringly hot. 

Fuck. Just his luck. 

“You’re Ronald Berry?” He could barely wrap his mind around it. He’d assumed Ronald Berry was going to be some 75-year-old crotchety man, not some smirking British man who couldn’t be more than a few years older than he was. And probably wasn’t going to be patriotic about America’s Christmas tree. 

“In the flesh,” said the hot British man. “Cabin’s that way. Where I have a fire. So it’s warm. Perfect for thawing out.” 

And it was probably the worst way to start a business discussion. Well, no, the _worst_ way to start a business discussion was to tell a man he could “save Christmas,” what the fuck, Dom was the worst with this stuff. But probably sitting shivering by a fireplace while your negotiatee made you _hot chocolate_ was probably the second-worst. 

Hot chocolate _with marshmallows_ , Arthur saw, when Ronald Berry pressed it into his hands. 

“Thanks,” Arthur said, and was at least relieved that his teeth were no longer chattering. 

“Least I could do.” He leaned up against the fireplace, still looking deeply amused. Arthur didn’t like the feeling he had that he was being constantly mocked in some low-level way. “Sure you don’t want to get out of those wet things?” Ronald Berry’s obscene lips twisted into a smile that made Arthur feel a flash of heat. 

“No,” said Arthur, trying to recover some dignity. Difficult considering he had one of Ronald Berry’s hand-knitted afghans draped over his shoulders. 

“So.” Ronald Berry crossed his arms. “Tell me how I’m going to save Christmas.” 

“You have a tree,” Arthur said. 

“I have lots of trees.” 

“Right. But you have one in particular that my boss likes.” 

Ronald Berry’s eyebrows lifted up toward his hairline. “Your boss has a thing for trees?” 

“We’re in charge of the Saito Center Christmas tree.” 

“The Saito Center Christmas tree?” Ronald Berry echoed. “As in…?”

“America’s Christmas tree. Yes. I don’t suppose there’s any chance that, despite your British accent, you passionately love America.” 

“America has given me many things,” Ronald Berry replied. “I am very fond of America. But I am not giving America a tree.”

“Why not? You have so many.” 

Ronald Berry chuckled. “Your logic is impeccable. But do I seem like a man who wants the publicity of being the source of America’s Christmas tree?” 

“I don’t know what the fuck sort of man you seem like,” Arthur said before he could help it. 

Ronald Berry laughed, and it was… _fantastic_. He had a very nice laugh, rich and genuine, and his eyes lit on Arthur almost admiringly, as if he approved, and Arthur wasn’t sure if he was blushing or if it was just the heat from the fire and maybe he hit his head when he fell but he wanted to do that again, a lot, _forever_ : make Ronald Berry laugh and look at him with warm delight in his expression. “That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me, darling.” 

And Arthur definitely didn’t know what to make of _that_. He decided on, “Nice enough to convince you to give me your tree?”

Berry laughed again and finally sat in the seat opposite Arthur. He was holding his own mug of hot chocolate that Arthur had noticed was mostly whiskey. He had offered the whiskey to Arthur and Arthur had refused based on some idea that he should stay professional. While wrapped in a blanket drinking a drink with _marshmallows_. Berry said, “Nice try. But no.” 

“We’re talking about real money here.” 

“Oh, not counterfeit?” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

Berry grinned at him, leaning back in his seat. “You are delightful.” 

“So you’re going to sell me your tree?”

“How much money?” 

“Forty thousand dollars,” said Arthur. 

“No,” said Berry, without hesitation, and sipped his whiskey hot chocolate. 

“Fifty thousand,” said Arthur. 

“No,” replied Berry again. 

“Sixty.” 

Berry grinned at him now. “You know that the first rule of negotiation is not to negotiate against yourself, right?” 

Arthur shrugged and said sourly, “I don’t really give a fuck how much my boss pays for his stupid perfect Christmas tree.” 

Berry tsk-ed at him. “That doesn’t sound like a good employee now, Arthur.” 

Arthur refused to give credence to the fact that he got undeniable goosebumps over the way his name sounded in Berry’s rich, accented voice. “It sounds like a _Jewish_ employee,” he said. 

Berry burst out laughing in that full-throated way he had that made Arthur want to roll around in glee. What was the _matter_ with Arthur? “Why would he send a Jewish employee to negotiate purchase of a Christmas tree?” 

“He isn’t the most logical of men,” said Arthur, which was probably putting it mildly. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but I assumed you lot had your Christmas tree picked out and purchased far in advance of the fortnight before it’s to be lit.” 

“Yes. We do. We _always_ do. But this year’s tree got sick.”

“Got sick?” Berry echoed. 

“And died,” said Arthur flatly. 

“It _died_?”

“Yes. Trees die, you know. They’re living things just like you and me.” 

“I know about trees, darling,” said Berry, sounding amused again. 

“So this one caught some kind of pine tree disease and died. All of its needles fell off. It was pathetic.” 

“You speak with a lack of empathy toward the poor dead tree.” 

“I also have a lack of empathy toward my colleagues who allowed it to catch the pine tree disease,” said Arthur, mentally cursing Yusuf. 

“Surely not their fault,” said Berry. 

“And I have a lack of empathy toward my colleagues who have gone and fallen in passionate love with a tree that belongs to you,” said Arthur, mentally cursing Ariadne. 

“Now, now,” said Berry. “That doesn’t seem sporting. They introduced the two of us, after all.”

Arthur glared. “But you won’t sell me your tree.” 

“I won’t sell you my tree, no.” 

“You know people usually just donate the tree. We don’t usually offer money at all.” 

“Fascinating,” said Berry. 

Arthur sighed. “You won’t sell it to me because of the publicity?” 

“Yes.” 

Arthur looked around the very off-the-grid cabin and thought that made sense. There _was_ a lot of publicity with being chosen for the tree. There would be even more publicity this year because of the last-minute nature of the whole thing. And it would be impossible to keep the tree’s owner confidential. That would only increase the frenzy of curiosity. 

Arthur looked back at Berry as a thought occurred to him. “What would make it worthwhile to you? The publicity. What price would we have to pay to make it worthwhile?” 

Berry lifted an eyebrow and said drily, “A hundred million dollars.” 

“Christ,” complained Arthur. “Be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to hole up here. Surely that’s evident to you. It would have to take a great deal of money to compensate me for that.” 

Arthur eyed him suspiciously. “You’re on the run from the law, aren’t you?” 

“Darling, if I were a vicious murderer, surely I would have killed you by now? Instead of leaving you alive to tell everyone my whereabouts?” 

Arthur considered. “Tax fraud?” he suggested. 

Berry burst out laughing again. “That’s more like it. Now. We have settled the business with the tree—”

“Have we?” said Arthur, although he thought he had to agree. Dom and Ariadne might both be crazy people, but they wouldn’t think this tree worth a hundred million dollars. 

“Yes,” Berry said firmly. “And you’re all warmed up again. But, if you like, you can stay for dinner.” 

“Dinner,” Arthur echoed. 

“If you like,” said Berry casually, although his eyes were anything but casual fixed on Arthur, “you can stay the night.” 

Arthur swallowed and felt far too tempted to accept that offer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so instantly attracted to someone, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d received an offer like this. Maybe he should stay here in this cabin and have a little fun. He kind of deserved it, given the way Dom and Ariadne had been acting. 

And, then again, he could not think of anything more reckless and stupid than staying the night in this inaccessible cabin with a man who Arthur still wasn’t convinced wasn’t a murderer on the run. 

Arthur swallowed again and licked his lips and Berry tracked the movement of his tongue with his eyes and Arthur stood and for a moment thought he was just going to throw himself on Berry’s lap, but then he removed his blanket with whatever dignity he could muster and said stiffly, “That’s okay,” as if that was the proper response when a hot British guy propositioned you out of the blue. 

He thought Berry looked disappointed but that was probably just his own wishful thinking. 

***

“You don’t have to chaperone me,” sulked Arthur bitterly. 

He was even adorable when he _sulked_ , thought Eames, and then thought he was being ridiculous and had to get over it. He’d propositioned Arthur as bluntly as possible, and Arthur had politely turned him down, and Eames had to give it up. 

Eames said, “I will not have you lost in the early twilight, killed by hypothermia and exposure and frostbite—”

“All of those things?” interjected Arthur sarcastically. 

Eames ignored him. “—And, to boot, having turned down your very generous offer for my Christmas tree. I will have failed to save Christmas _and_ killed the Jewish elf.”

“Not an elf,” said Arthur, slipping in the snow. 

“Darling, why are you wearing _wingtips_?” Eames asked, amused, because he’d never seen anything more thoroughly impractical than the expensive designer shoes Arthur had on his feet. 

“Because I was going to a _business meeting_ ,” Arthur pointed out primly. 

“In Vermont, darling,” said Eames. 

“What, Vermont can’t be _civilized_?” sniffed Arthur. 

“You’d be horrified if you tried the nearest bagels,” remarked Eames. “You’d be horrified if you knew how far away the nearest bagels are.” 

“Good Lord,” said Arthur, looking properly horrified at just the prospect. “Why would you willingly put yourself through this?” 

“The arc of life is long, Arthur,” said Eames grandly. 

Arthur gave him a look. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

Eames grinned. “It means new experiences can be good for you for a time. Challenging.” 

Arthur looked unimpressed. “I like new experiences. I just like new experiences with decent bagels nearby.” 

“I cannot say that I can argue with that life philosophy, Arthur,” Eames agreed. 

“You don’t have to keep saying my name,” said Arthur. 

“Does it bother you?” asked Eames, surprised. “Sorry.” 

Arthur sighed and looked disgruntled. “No, it doesn’t—Never mind.” 

They were getting closer to the road now. Eames was going to lose all excuse to keep Arthur company in a few moments. Eames wasn’t sure why he was still clinging to the excuse to keep Arthur company. Obviously being alone in the middle of nowhere—without access to proper bagels—had caused him to go a bit mad. 

And, on cue, Arthur said, “I think I can find my way from here.” 

“Yes,” Eames said, because he couldn’t think of a way to say _no_ without sounding like a dangerous stalker, “probably. You’ll be able to get a flight tonight?”

“I have the private plane,” said Arthur absently, and then, “Christ, that made me sound obnoxious. Sorry.” 

“Not at all,” said Eames, standing and regarding the red tips of Arthur’s ears, the curling wave to the hair that he kept pushing back from his forehead, the shadow of dimples in his cheeks that he kept trying to suppress, the puff of his breath crystallizing in the air in front of them. Eames realized abruptly he was _cataloguing_ him. How bloody insane _was_ he? 

It was starting to snow, one of the brief little flurries that kicked up sometimes. It wouldn’t last very long, Eames knew; certainly wouldn’t jeopardize Arthur’s ability to get out. But Arthur looked up at the snowflakes and scowled, as if he didn’t look lovely with the white of the snow settling in his hair and on the shoulders of his greatcoat. 

Too lovely to just…let go. Eames took a step closer to him, crowding into his personal space a bit, and watched him. Arthur looked wary but didn’t move away. 

So Eames, telegraphing every movement, waiting to be pushed away, curled his fingers into the lapels of Arthur’s coat and very gently leaned forward to press his lips against his. And then he waited, just a second, for Arthur’s little sigh and then his kiss back, and then suddenly it was a _kiss_ , with tongues and teeth and lack of air or space or thought. 

When it finally ended, Arthur stood with his mouth open, wet, rosy, well-kissed, panting at Eames, looking stunned. 

Eames looked at him and managed not to kiss him again; managed, after a moment, to say, “Forgive me, darling. But I’d never had a first kiss in a snowfall before.” 

Arthur just blinked and didn’t say anything at all. 

Eames let go of him and stepped away and then walked away, and with every step he _ached_ for Arthur to call him back. He had put himself out there, and Arthur knew what he wanted, and Arthur had to be the one to say yes. 

But Arthur said nothing, and Eames walked through the growing flurry all the way back to his house, thoroughly out-of-sorts with both himself and Arthur, and when he walked through the door he stomped the snow off his boots and toed them off and flung himself melodramatically on the couch and then he thought. _First kiss_ , he’d said. As if there would be more. Idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Arthur stood next to his car, with the snow growing thicker all around him, and stared after Berry, disappearing back into the woods, and had no idea what to do. Because he wasn’t entirely sure he had ever been kissed like _that_ before in his life. He felt floored, knocked-over, tongue-tied. He couldn’t have said anything at all in the wake of that kiss, not at first, and now that he wanted to Berry was too far away to hear it. Arthur would have had to have shouted and run after him. And what was Arthur even going to _say_? “Wait, come back, that kiss was spectacular”? That sounded so…ridiculous. Like, whatever, it was a kiss, he was an adult, he needed to get in the car and get back to the plane and forget all about it. What had Berry been playing at with that kiss anyway? 

Arthur got in his car and started driving and said out loud, “ _First_ kiss,” as if there was going to be _others_. Ridiculous. Why would Berry have done that? Why—

“Fuck,” said Arthur, annoyed that he had ever been sent on this pointless mission. He called Dom to complain to him. 

Dom answered with, “Did you work your magic?” 

_Define “magic,”_ thought Arthur. Because he supposed maybe there had been some kind of magic going on in Berry’s kiss. And then he thought he was behaving like a teenager again in calling a kiss _magical_ , what the fuck. “No,” Arthur said shortly. “He won’t sell.” 

“Did you offer him the fifty thousand?” Dom asked, which had been their agreed-upon price. 

“I offered him sixty,” said Arthur. 

“ _Arthur_ ,” Dom chided him. “You weren’t authorized to—”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Arthur. “He didn’t take it.” 

“He didn’t even want sixty thousand dollars?” Dom said in disbelief. “For a _tree_? A tree that’s usually _donated_ for _free_? And all of the fame and fortune that comes with being _America’s tree_?” 

“That’s exactly what he didn’t want,” Arthur said. “He is very happy living off-the-grid in the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t want the paparazzi descending upon him.”

“We could keep it quiet—”

Arthur snorted. “No, we couldn’t, Dom. Not this.” 

“We could,” said Dom petulantly. “If we _tried_.” 

Arthur sighed. Sometimes you had to hit Dom over the head with the assessment of impossibility. Dom lived in dream worlds. “The tree’s a no-go. Pick another tree.” 

“But that was the _best_ tree.” 

“It’s a fucking tree, Dom. Pick another one. Now I have to concentrate because it is snowing and there might be deer trying to kill me.” 

“Why would deer be trying to kill you?” asked Dom quizzically. 

Arthur hung up the phone, because sometimes that was all you could do to deal with Dom. 

***

Arthur sat in Dom’s office and was subjected to the full brunt of everyone’s disapproval over his inability to negotiation for the Berry tree. 

Arthur said, “This is delightful. I’m glad I came back from Vermont for _this_.” Vermont, where he’d had actually a very nice offer of sex. At this very moment, he could have been spread out in bed getting a blowjob from one of the hottest men he’d ever seen in his life. But no. He was sitting in Dom Cobb’s office being disapprovingly squinted at. This was basically the story of Arthur’s life. 

Dom said, “Well, we are all glad the deer didn’t succeed in killing you.” 

“Why were the deer trying to kill you?” asked Yusuf. 

“Is it because you hate Christmas?” asked Ariadne. “It’s because you hate Christmas, isn’t it?”

“I am _Jewish_ ,” Arthur reminded everyone for the seven millionth time. 

“Do deer hate Jewish people?” Dom asked. 

“Deer hate all people,” Arthur said. “Haven’t you ever driven anywhere where there are deer? They’re constantly trying to leap in front of your cars and kill you.” 

“When did you drive anywhere where there were deer?” asked Yusuf curiously. 

“I’ve spent time upstate,” Arthur said, not that it was anyone’s business. 

“Know any nice-looking Christmas trees out there?” asked Yusuf. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Dom said. “I have been through Ariadne’s file of suggestions again, and none of the other candidates will do.” 

“Dom,” said Arthur, as patiently as he could. “They are all just _trees_.” 

“You say that because you hate Christmas,” said Dom. “But they are not just trees. They are potential _Christmas trees_. They are to serve as a symbol of light in the darkness of midwinter for all who need hope. They are basically shining Molotov cocktails in our dark den of thieves.” 

Everyone stared at Dom. 

Ariadne said, “You know what a Molotov cocktail is, right?” 

Arthur said, “Nothing about that metaphor was the least bit appealing.” 

“The tree that we use to be _America’s Christmas tree_ must be perfect. It must be _that one_. How much do you think he would sell for, Arthur?” 

Arthur took a deep breath and shrugged and said, “A hundred million dollars.” 

Yusuf choked, and Ariadne whacked him on the back. 

Dom squinted at him disapprovingly. “Be reasonable, Arthur.” 

“I am being as reasonable as Ronald Berry will let me be. I asked him what price would convince him to sell, and that was what he told me.” 

“Well, he must have been joking,” said Dom. “Who would pay a hundred million dollars for a tree, when there are lots of other trees around?” 

“I don’t know,” said Arthur drily. “Maybe people who get fixated on the one true Molotov cocktail, or whatever.” 

“You of all people should know about oil burning in darkness,” said Dom. 

“You actually don’t know what Molotov cocktails are, do you?” said Ariadne. 

“They aren’t _Jewish_ ,” Arthur said. “The Jewish story of Chanukah isn’t about _Molotov cocktails_.” 

“Go back and offer him a hundred thousand dollars,” said Dom. 

Arthur felt himself make a face and felt Ariadne focus on that face and wished that he hadn’t made a face. He said, “Maybe somebody else should go.” He didn’t want to go back and visit Ronald Berry again. He was very scared that he’d walk in and just start taking his clothes off, honestly. Upon reflection, he couldn’t believe that that hadn’t been his first response. 

“You’re the one who’s developed the rapport with him,” said Dom. 

Arthur thought of being kissed thoughtless in the middle of a flurry, and felt his ears redden, and wished Ariadne wasn’t clearly focused on _that_ , too. He said, a little less convincingly than he would have liked, “What rapport? I made him an offer and he turned it down. That’s not a rapport.” 

“Arthur,” said Dom, all earnest seriousness as he looked across at him. “You are still my best point man on these things. I expect you to find a way. I know you will.” 

Arthur sighed and shook his head and thought how he really needed a new job. 

He was pulling his coat on when Ariadne cornered him. 

“So,” she said, drawing the word out so it had seventeen syllables. 

“Go away,” said Arthur. “I need to go plan another trip to the godforsaken state of Vermont.” 

“What happened with you and the Berry guy?” 

“Nothing happened,” Arthur denied, knotting his scarf around his throat. 

“Really?” said Ariadne, making that word have seventeen syllables, too. 

“Stop talking like that,” said Arthur. 

“What’s he look like?” Ariadne asked, skipping beside Arthur as Arthur tried to make his escape. “Is he seventy-five years old?” 

“No,” said Arthur, and he knew his voice sounded sour with disapproval. “He’s not much older than me.” Arthur kept his head down, hoping that Ariadne wouldn’t notice that he was surely blushing stupidly. 

“Really?” said Ariadne, in her seventeen-syllable way again. 

“And he’s British,” said Arthur, wondering why he was still talking. “Which is why he doesn’t care about America’s fucking Christmas tree.” 

“He’s your age and he’s British and he’s hot. This is excellent.” 

“Who said he was hot?” Arthur demanded. 

Ariadne grinned at him and said, “You have yourself some fun, Arthur. You deserve it.” And then she scurried away. 

***

Arthur was getting to be an expert at navigating the snowy Vermont roads on his way to Ronald Berry’s isolated cabin. He’d gotten a late start, distracted by Dom calling him in to give him a detailed breakdown on how he thought Arthur ought to go about negotiating with Berry, involving things like _plant the idea of a hundred thousand dollars in his mind like a parasite_. A waste of Arthur’s time, all of it, because there was no negotiation that was going to end with him getting Berry’s tree. 

It wasn’t proper twilight when Arthur finally parked his car in a snowbank and started trudging through the snow but the days were short enough that the sun was very low in the sky, already sinking behind the tree line. Arthur huddled into the warmth of his coat and picked his way carefully over the layers of crisp and fluffy snow on his way to the cabin, and he didn’t even fall this time. He was determined to arrive with his dignity intact. 

Berry was waiting for him in the doorway, leaning up against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. He was wearing one of the most hideous sweaters Arthur had ever seen, and a pair of jeans, and then equally hideous socks, and he was watching Arthur with his eyebrows lifted in amused curiosity, a small smirk playing around those obscene lips he had. 

“Hello,” he said, as Arthur drew up in front of him. 

“Hi,” said Arthur, and Arthur had planned to bring up the hundred thousand, to say everything about this was stupid, to apologize for bothering him again, but the only words Arthur could remember suddenly were Ariadne saying he deserved to have some fun and the sight of Berry was like a concentrated drug rush over him and the next thing Arthur found himself doing was twisting a gloved hand into Ronald Berry’s hideous sweater and kissing him senseless up against the door. 

Berry didn’t seem the least bit surprised at Arthur throwing himself at him. Berry caught him up and directed him inside and slammed the door shut. Arthur was dimly aware of this, just as he was dimly aware of Berry pushing his coat back and off of him. Arthur was focused on kissing Berry _just so_ , so he would make that delicious sound, and with trying to get his stupid gloves off so he could get his hands on him. 

Berry’s hands were at his neck, unknotting the scarf and flinging it aside, and Arthur succeeded in freeing his hands and went for Berry’s sweater. Getting it up and over Berry’s head necessitated breaking the kiss, which was the only reason why Arthur leaned away and gasped, “Will you take a hundred thousand dollars for your tree?” 

“No,” Berry said, shaking his head, and then Arthur got his sweater up over his head. 

“Okay,” said Arthur, and went back to kissing him. 

Berry was smiling into the kiss, Arthur could feel the curve of his lips, and he bit at it until Berry’s breath stuttered into a groan. 

“Darling,” he said, pulling back to shove Arthur’s tie impatiently out of the way, trying to deal with the buttons on Arthur’s shirt, “why weren’t you naked under that coat?”

“Because you live in fucking Vermont,” Arthur retorted, shrugging out of his suit coat. “I had to fucking _hike_ to get here.” 

“And yet you’re still wearing wingtips,” said Berry, grinning at him. 

“Shut up,” Arthur said, and batted his hands away. “Haven’t you ever had to remove someone’s tie before, for fuck’s sake?” 

“I don’t usually shag public school blokes,” said Berry. 

“Stop talking British to me,” Arthur said, and unbuttoned his shirt. “Also stop having tattoos.” 

Berry glanced down at his chest and then back up, as if it wasn’t something magnificent that should be stared at for at least the next hour or so. “Nothing I can do about that.” 

“Don’t get any hotter,” Arthur commanded, and shoved him down onto the bed, and then wondered suddenly where the bed had come from, when they had made their way into the bedroom. 

“I can’t control my intense attractiveness,” Berry said, stacking his hands under his head. “It’s a dangerous weapon.” 

Arthur straddled him and peered at the lines of ink across his chest and said, “Can I lick them?” 

“Well, now I’m going to be devastated if you don’t, pet,” remarked Berry. 

Arthur leaned forward, running the flat of his tongue along the lines of ink on Berry’s chest, nipping and sucking over particular flourishes in the design, and by the time he was done Berry’s hands were twisted hard in his hair. 

Arthur moved back up Berry’s body so that he could look down at him, panting underneath him, pupils wide and dark. He rasped out, “You have a nice chest.” 

“You have a nice arse,” Berry responded hoarsely, hands landing on said appendage and squeezing. 

“Do you think so?” asked Arthur. “Because you haven’t even seen it naked yet. You might be jumping to conclusions.” 

“Your tailoring doesn’t leave much to the imagination, darling,” Berry assured him, and then rolled them so that he was on top. “And I’m going to get you out of your trousers, I assure you.” 

“Oh, good,” said Arthur. “I was worried I’d misunderstood the point of this entire situation.” 

“I’m going to absolutely bloody destroy you,” Berry said darkly, before leaning down to kiss Arthur again. 

And Arthur meant to protest, because it wasn’t like he was just going to roll over and be destroyed, he was going to take as good as he got, except that then Berry’s hands finally turned their attention to his trousers and that made Arthur’s head go blank and it was possible he was gasping half-formed oaths in Berry’s direction. 

“Eames,” Berry said into his ear, and then scraped his teeth over his earlobe. 

Arthur scratched his nails along Berry’s back in response. “What?” he said fuzzily, perplexed by the nonsense word. 

“My name is Eames,” Berry said. “Call me Eames.” 

And Arthur should have known that didn’t make much sense, except that Berry’s hands were doing something so incredible that Arthur would have called him whatever the fuck he wanted at that moment. He arched against Berry, panting, just wanting more. 

“Say it,” Berry said breathlessly, pressing the words against Arthur’s mouth. 

“Eames,” Arthur managed, and Berry kissed him, fast and deep. “Eames,” he said again, meeting the kiss he got in response. 

“Tell me what you want,” Berry murmured, and ran his nose along Arthur’s, in a gesture that was unexpectedly intimate and oddly erotic all at the same time. 

Arthur said, “Your mouth…” and Berry completely misunderstood, heading down Arthur’s body, until Arthur closed his hands in Berry’s hair and dragged him back. “Kiss me,” Arthur demanded, and tugged Berry’s lower lip between his teeth. “And don’t you fucking stop.” Arthur had a thing for a good kisser, he wasn’t ashamed to admit it, and Berry was currently riding very high in his top five. 

“Christ, no,” Berry agreed, leaning down to meet Arthur’s kiss halfway. 

And the thing about Arthur was it had been a long time since he’d gotten laid, and Berry was an _excellent_ kisser, and talented with his hands. Arthur’s thrusts against Berry’s hand grew as erratic as his kiss and then his climax slammed into him with enough strength that he arched his neck back, away from Berry, gasping for air. 

“That’s it,” Berry murmured against Arthur’s throat, and Arthur realized that he had shifted his hands’ services to himself. 

Arthur shoved at him, and Berry rolled willingly, clearly assuming his weight over Arthur was too much, and then Arthur pinned Berry’s hands to the mattress and swallowed him down in a fluid movement he was proud of himself for pulling off. 

“Fuck,” said Berry in a strangled voice, and came. 

Arthur, exhausted, dragged himself up Berry’s body a bit to collapse on his heaving chest. “Quick,” he murmured. “My jaw thanks you.”

“Oh, shut up, kettle,” said Berry without heat. 

Arthur chuckled and closed his eyes. 

***

Eames laid on his back in bed with Arthur dozing on his chest and stared at the ceiling, wide awake. He rather envied Arthur’s post-orgasm languor, because Eames had just had a fairly notable climax but was busy dwelling on the fact that he’d told Arthur his name. _Why?_ What the fuck had it _mattered_? Arthur hadn’t seemed inclined to say any name at all, hadn’t been saying the wrong name, so why had it suddenly bothered Eames that Arthur didn’t know his name? Why had he suddenly found it so necessary that Arthur say his name? 

And why had his name in Arthur’s voice, gasped and desperate, been so… _worthwhile_? 

Eames closed his eyes, not because he was tired but because of the very opposite: he felt so unbearably _awake_. He needed to shut off his thoughts. He tried to focus on Arthur, recognizing that he was a bit of a mess. They both were. He should be a gentleman and fetch a flannel before things turned unromantically unpleasant.

He sighed and jostled Arthur over, and when he returned from the bathroom with the flannel, Arthur was awake, had wriggled himself fully out of his remaining clothes, and looked thoughtful. 

Eames dropped the flannel on Arthur’s abdomen. 

Arthur looked up at him and said wryly, “Who said chivalry is dead?”

“You,” Eames said, leaning over him, “are an unbearably sarcastic prick who needs to be fucked more often.” 

“Such impressive talk, Mr. Berry,” said Arthur flirtatiously, with a little teasing flutter of his eyelashes, as he cleaned himself up. Then, looking up at him curiously, “Or Eames? Should it be Eames?”

Not even gasped and desperate, just his name, matter-of-fact and straightforward, and Eames watched Arthur’s lips form the well-known sounds that indicated _him_ and felt…off-balance. He took the flannel and said honestly, “Eames. Yes. It’s what people call me.” He walked back into the bathroom to toss the flannel haphazardly into the tub and to buy himself time to take a deep breath and settle back into the con he was supposed to be running and that he was uncharacteristically jeopardizing. 

When he came back out, Arthur was propped up on his elbow in the bed. Eames slid into bed next to him. 

“Where do you get Eames from ‘Ronald Berry’?” asked Arthur. 

“If your name was Ronald Berry, wouldn’t you prefer to go by Eames, too?” responded Eames lightly. 

“I guess,” said Arthur, sounding dubious. 

“You guess?” repeated Eames. “You cannot possibly like the name Ronald Berry.” 

“No,” said Arthur. “It’s hideous. But so is Arthur. People can’t just go around changing their names. It would be anarchy.” 

“Arthur is a lovely name!” Eames protested. “It’s a delightful name! How dare you impugn the good name of Arthur! It is a name of kingly legend and magical romance.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. 

“It suits you perfectly,” Eames persisted. 

“You’re insane,” Arthur said, and flopped onto his back, and Eames was pleased that they seemed to be off the topic of Ronald Berry’s name. “Should have known that from the socks.” 

Yes. Definitely off the topic of Ronald Berry’s name. “What socks? _My_ socks?” 

“I didn’t think it was possible to find such hideous socks.” 

“I knitted these myself,” Eames said, affronted, lifting up his foot so he could admire them. 

“Of course you did,” said Arthur, sounding resigned. “I’m not letting you fuck me with those socks on.” 

“No, generally I use a condom for that sort of thing,” agreed Eames. 

“Ha ha,” said Arthur. “You’re hilarious.” 

“You’re breathtaking,” said Eames, which wasn’t quite what he’d intended to say but was _true_. Truth seemed to keep slipping out of him. And Arthur, disheveled, his hair a wavy mess over his forehead, his eyes wide and impossibly dark, his lips kiss-swollen and his neck kiss-bruised—Arthur was _gorgeous_. 

Arthur blushed, which made him even more gorgeous. 

“Stop it,” he said. “I’m already here and naked, aren’t I?” 

“What changed your mind?” asked Eames, marveling at him. He reached out to press a wondering thumb into the shallow depression of Arthur’s right dimple. 

Arthur said, “My boss told me to come back and offer you a hundred thousand dollars.” 

“Did your boss tell you to sleep with me for it?” 

“No. I’m improvising.” 

Eames chuckled. “I am going to choose to call this a Christmas miracle.” 

“A Christmas miracle would be you selling me your stupid tree.” 

“A Christmas miracle would be a new perfect tree appearing out of thin air for you to murder and torment with tacky lights.” 

“Tacky,” Arthur repeated. “Did you just say ‘tacky’? _You_?” 

“Is that not a word I’m allowed to say?” 

“Look down at your socks,” Arthur said. 

Eames complied. 

“Now let’s talk about ‘tacky,’ hmm?” 

Eames took his socks off and dangled them above Arthur’s head. 

Arthur said, “Is this supposed to be sexy?” 

“Works on all my British conquests,” says Eames. “You Americans are odd ducks.” 

“Get your smelly, hideous socks out of my face,” Arthur commanded. 

Eames grinned and threw the socks off into a distant corner of the bedroom. “Now that we’ve thoroughly discussed my footwear, can we talk about your wingtips?” 

“No,” said Arthur. “Because they’re gorgeous.” 

“You’re in Vermont.” 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still be civilized,” sniffed Arthur. 

“I’m calling dibs on you for my zombie apocalypse survival partner.” 

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” 

“It means that, if there’s a zombie apocalypse, you’re my partner.” 

“Are you proposing marriage?” asked Arthur blandly. 

“This is more important than _marriage_ ,” Eames replied seriously. 

“I’ll be your zombie apocalypse survival partner if you give me your tree.” 

“Can ‘tree’ be a euphemism for ‘enormous penis’?” 

“No,” said Arthur. 

“You’re not very much fun,” Eames told him. “It’s going to be a long, dull zombie apocalypse.”

“I bet I could come up with stuff for us to do,” said Arthur confidently. 

“I would love to hear all about this in great detail,” said Eames. 

“I’m not great with words, but I am fucking awesome at physical demonstrations.” 

“Really? Then I suppose I could settle for a physical demonstration. Can I take notes? Maybe record it on my phone for later study?” 

“It’s a closed book exam,” Arthur told him, and rolled on top of him. 

“Fuck,” said Eames, abruptly breathless, “how do you make that sound sexy?” 

Arthur grinned, dimples deep, eyes a wicked gleam, and Eames thought that he was fairly certain Arthur’s last name had to be Trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Arthur woke from a deep and dreamless sleep, which was noteworthy enough in and of itself that it took him a moment to place his surroundings. He had always been a restless and uncertain sleeper; he was thrown by this novel experience of solid sleep; he felt hazy and dull-witted. So it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t home, that this wasn’t his bed, and then to place where exactly he was, and then he sat up abruptly. 

He was alone in the bed. Alone in the bedroom. He hadn’t paid much attention to it before but it was a small room, sparsely furnished, and all very Vermont. The blankets heaped on the bed were either knitted or patchwork, and the walls were wood-paneled, and there was a small wood-burning stove. Arthur wished the stove had been on, because there was a decided nip to the air in the bedroom. 

Shivering a little now that he was awake, Arthur considered his options. He hadn’t consciously intended to spend the night, and he was debating how awkward it was going to be to leave the bedroom to encounter Berry. Even worse, only about half of his clothing was in this room with him, so he couldn’t even face his one-night stand with some kind of dignity. 

But he couldn’t stay here hiding in the bedroom. 

Arthur looked at the door that led to an attached bathroom and had the brilliant idea to steal a shower. Berry would hear that he was up and hopefully tactfully leave the cabin so that Arthur could slink off without some awkward morning-after encounter. 

The shower was divinely hot, which Arthur desperately needed. It warmed him up and soothed the aches the night before had left, and he felt a little more himself as he stepped out and pulled on his pants and socks and shoes. Then he glanced at his watch as he fastened it back on his wrist and lifted his eyebrows. Fuck, was that actually the _time_? He fumbled for his cell phone, pulling it out and realizing that he had no service out here. Everyone at work was going to be desperate that he hadn’t checked in. How had he slept the entire morning away? He _never_ did that. He was usually up with the sun. 

Discombobulated, Arthur stepped out into the main living area without thinking, and was slammed in the face metaphorically with the smell of bacon and the sight of Ronald Berry. Eames, Arthur corrected himself. He should be thinking of him as Eames. 

It suddenly made perfect sense to Arthur why he was still in this cabin: who walked away from men who looked like that? 

Eames looked up at him and grinned. “Hello, sleeping beauty.” 

Given the time, Arthur thought that was called for. “Sorry,” he said, knowing he was blushing. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” 

“It happens.” Eames shrugged, unconcerned, in the direction of the bacon he was frying. “My sexual prowess wears the unprepared out.” 

“It must be such a trial to be you,” remarked Arthur wryly, walking over to him. 

“You have no idea,” Eames agreed cheerfully. “How do you want your eggs?” 

Arthur looked down at the bacon in the frying pan and wished his mouth wasn’t watering and also wished his mouth was only watering for the food. “Listen,” said Arthur. 

“I am indeed listening very closely. Is your egg order very complicated?” 

“No,” Arthur said. “I think I should go.”

“Do you?” Eames lifted an eyebrow at him. “I think you should stay.” 

“For what?” asked Arthur. 

“For sex,” replied Eames simply, poking at his bacon. “I am not nearly done tearing you apart yet.” 

Arthur sucked in a breath. “I have…I don’t know. A job. I have a…job.” 

“Are you sure?” Eames sounded amused. “You sound uncertain.” 

“You’re a smug asshole,” Arthur told him, and then backed him up against the wall and kissed him, which wasn’t really what he’d intended to do, but fuck it. 

Because Eames kissed him back and Eames had to stop being so fucking good at kissing, it shook Arthur down entirely, the slide of his tongue, the nip of his teeth. 

“You have a thing for smug arseholes?” said Eames, into the collision of their mouths. 

“No,” Arthur denied, panting as he basically climbed Eames like a tree to get his legs around his waist. “I hate them.”

“Fascinating,” said Eames, bracing himself back against the wall to distribute Arthur’s weight. “What are you like when you actually _like_ something?” 

“Fucking insatiable,” Arthur informed him. 

***

Arthur was napping again. Eames dragged out a quilt from the bed and tucked it around him and built up the fire and considered what was left in the cabin to eat. Arthur had expended a lot of energy over the past few hours. Arthur clearly needed to be fed. And Arthur had caused Eames to burn the bacon to the point of no salvation. 

Eames chopped up some random meat and vegetables and tossed them into a pot and hoped they turned into a stew of some sort. And then he took more food out of the freezer. If Arthur was going to stay a while—and Eames was going to make sure of that—then they would need more food. And Eames didn’t really feel like going into town to get some more; that would be a waste of fucking time. 

Twilight arrived. Eames rebuilt the fire and stretched out on the floor next to Arthur and read the book he was working his way through. Ronald Berry had had a selection of kind of horrible Republican gun thrillers with heroes named Reagan. Who knew that was a genre? 

“Why are you on the floor?” asked Arthur, his voice rough with sleep. 

Eames glanced across at him. He was still bundled up under the quilt, and his eyes were still heavy, and everything about him looked soft and cuddly. He was the opposite of the sharp-edged Arthur Eames had met, and Eames loved that he was seeing this side of him. “Keeping you company,” he said, and put his book down. 

“What are you reading?”

“It’s horrible,” Eames said. “I was just killing time until you woke up and we could have some more sex.” 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. 

“Are you apologizing for the sex? You shouldn’t apologize for the sex.” 

“I’m sorry for sleeping so much.” 

“Arthur.” Eames shifted closer to him on the floor, insinuating his way under the quilt with him. “I think you work too hard.” 

“I have a stupid job,” Arthur said. 

“Mmm.” Eames brushed a kiss over Arthur’s collarbone. “Negotiating for Christmas trees? That _is_ a stupid job. What do you do the rest of the year?”

“Whatever needs to be done,” murmured Arthur, shifting to give Eames more access to his neck. “I’m the company point man.”

“That sounds very important. Probably interferes with sleep—and food—and sex.” Eames punctuated his statement with bites underneath Arthur’s jawline that made him twitch and sigh and put his hand in Eames’s hair, pressing him closer.

“A little. You should stop.” He said it while tugging Eames into a proper kiss, which lessened its impact. “I was supposed to be back to work hours ago,” said Arthur, in a brief moment of his tongue not being down Eames’s throat. He took another short break to say, “People will be worried about me.” 

“Text them,” Eames said, shifting to press Arthur underneath him more fully. “Tell them not to come looking for you.” 

Arthur was wriggling about and Eames gave him room, suddenly concerned he really was protesting. But instead he realized that Arthur was squirming to get at his discarded trousers, where he pulled a phone out of his pocket and frowned. “No service still,” he said. “Fuck, they’ve probably been calling and calling.” 

“E-mail them,” Eames suggested. 

“Do you have wifi here?” asked Arthur. 

Eames gave him a look. “It’s Vermont, not the Middle Ages.” 

“What’s your password?” asked Arthur, poking around on his phone. 

“It’s not password-protected,” said Eames, nosing at Arthur’s chest. 

Arthur snorted. “Middle Ages.” 

It wasn’t password-protected because Eames couldn’t be bothered. He had motion detectors and other traps set up all over his property. If people got close enough to steal his wifi, he had other issues. 

Arthur said, “Fuck,” looking at his phone and frowning. 

He looked serious enough that Eames pulled away to settle next to him. “Have they e-mailed you a lot?” 

“Cobb thinks I’m dead.” 

“Who’s Cobb?”

“My boss.” 

“Is he worried about your death?” 

“Mildly.” 

“He sounds charming.” 

“He’s just preoccupied. His job is…” 

“His job is getting a Christmas tree, Arthur. And he delegated that to you,” Eames pointed out. 

Arthur tossed his phone away. “But it’s no big deal, because Ariadne told everyone I’m having a lot of sex with you.” 

“Who’s Ariadne?” 

“My girlfriend,” said Arthur. 

“Try again,” Eames said wryly, not fooled for a second. 

Arthur grinned, dimples irresistible, so that Eames had to lean down and kiss them. “A co-worker. Sometimes a friend. When she’s not telling everyone about my sex life.” 

Eames smiled against Arthur’s skin and nosed his way along Arthur’s jaw. “Did you tell her I was someone you were likely to have sex with?” 

“I told her you were a hideous troll,” said Arthur, looping his arms around Eames’s neck and stretching out underneath him. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Eames informed him, and tried not to think too hard about that difference between them, about how very much he was lying to Arthur, every breath, every heartbeat. 

Arthur grinned and wrapped his legs around Eames and Eames kissed him to stop himself from thinking anymore. 

***

Eames watched Arthur devour his stew as if it actually tasted good, and then he said, “What shall we do next?” 

“Is that your way of propositioning me?” asked Arthur. 

“That’s my way of saying that I might be too old for the amount of sex you’re expecting out of me.” 

Arthur laughed. “What do you do around here for fun?” 

Usually he watched his surveillance cameras and surfed the Internet and fantasized about what he was going to do once the money was free and clear and his. He said, “How about Scrabble?” 

So he got the game out and they settled their tiles in front of them and Arthur’s first word was _obtuse_ and Eames said, “Oops, sorry, negative fifteen points.” 

Arthur exclaimed, “What?” 

“You played a non-sexual word. That’s a penalty.” 

“What the hell sort of Scrabble do you play?” asked Arthur, bemused. 

“I play excellent Scrabble.” And Eames played _coccyx_ happily. 

“‘Obtuse’ could be sexual,” Arthur decided. 

“Let it go, darling,” said Eames.

“It could be. Under certain circumstances.” 

“What kind of sex is _obtuse_?” 

“I didn’t say it would be good sex. You’re an asshole anyway for not telling me the rules.” Arthur played _fucker_ belligerently and went back to frowning adorably at his tiles. 

“I tried to tell you the rules and you said, ‘I’m not an idiot, Eames, I know how to play _Scrabble_.’” 

“You didn’t tell me it was trick Scrabble!” 

Eames played _rickets_. 

“What the hell is that?” Arthur said. “I call a penalty.” 

“‘Rickets’ is the term for a very special sex move,” Eames said. 

“What sex move?” asked Arthur skeptically. 

“A very sexy one,” said Eames. 

“It’s the name of a terrible disease, Eames.” 

“Maybe I need to demonstrate the sex move for you,” remarked Eames, and reached for Arthur. 

Arthur went. “I thought we’d had too much sex for you.” 

“Not now that the world-renowned rickets move is in play,” said Eames. 

Arthur laughed. Eames wanted to bottle that laugh. Eames didn’t want to think about the things he would do to get Arthur to laugh. So Eames kissed him instead. It was becoming his favorite way to stop thinking. 

***

Arthur was pretty sure he could feel Eames’s gaze on him. He opened an eye just to make sure. And yes, in the moonlight streaming through the window, Eames was very clearly looking at him. 

“What?” Arthur asked sleepily, turning into him automatically, unthinkingly. 

“Stay,” Eames said into his hair. 

“Eames, it’s the middle of the night,” Arthur mumbled. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“No, I mean stay. For…a while. A long time. Indefinitely.” 

Arthur blinked his eyes open, suddenly awake. He drew back and looked at Eames. Who looked very serious. “What?” he said. 

“I don’t want you to go,” Eames said, and he sounded earnest and sincere. He picked up Arthur’s hand and kissed his knuckle. 

“I…” Arthur had no idea what to say. He had not expected Eames to turn to him in bed in the middle of the night and say _this_. 

“I want you to stay,” Eames said, and tangled their legs together. “I want to wake up to you and go to sleep with you and play Scrabble with you and cook for you and have lots and lots and lots of sex. Stay. Say you want to stay.”

“That’s crazy, Eames,” Arthur managed. 

“What’s crazy about it?” 

“We just met—”

“Everyone has to meet sometime, Arthur. Everything has to start somewhere. So this is us. We met and we started and let’s just…stay. Let’s just…see.” 

“See what?” Arthur asked. He felt desperately out of his depth, utterly bewildered. Because it couldn’t be that Eames was talking forever here, and he both did and did not want Eames to be talking about forever, and that was _insane_. But everything about this was insane. He never did things like this. He never disappeared from work at busy times to stay in bed with strange men. What the fuck was he _doing_? 

“I don’t know. See everything.” Eames ducked forward to kiss him, sweet and pleading. “I’m out here in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t expect…anything like you, but here you are, and isn’t that _something_ , Arthur? Isn’t that something we should…I don’t want you to walk away from me again. Not now. Maybe not ever. I know that sounds mad, and—”

“Eames,” Arthur said, too terrified for this. And not terrified that Eames meant it, terrified that Eames _didn’t_ mean it. That Eames didn’t know what he was saying. That Eames was sleep-talking or something. That Eames didn’t mean to give Arthur the impression that he’d looked at him and wanted him and wanted to keep him forever. Because if Arthur let himself believe that Eames _meant_ this… “It’s the middle of the night and the sex is really good and you’re not—”

“Don’t walk away from me again,” Eames said, and pressed his face into Arthur’s neck. “Stay with me, darling. Please just stay.” 

Arthur closed his eyes. Arthur brushed his lips into Eames’s hair. And Arthur thought it didn’t even matter what he said here, because he wouldn’t be able to walk away again. It was terrifying, yes, but the thought of going back to New York and his Eames-less life made him feel ill. Arthur hadn’t realized it, but Arthur was not able to envision leaving Eames behind here. Arthur was not able to envision an ending to this. 

Arthur said, “Yes. Yes, I’ll stay.” And meant, _I’ll stay forever. As long as you’ll have me._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

In the morning, Eames was solemn and serious as he made them breakfast. Arthur didn’t know what to make of it and could only attribute it to the nighttime conversation. Probably Eames was regretting it. Just as Arthur had feared he would. The sensible thing would be for Arthur to go home. They would exchange numbers. Maybe they’d try to give long-distance dating a try and what the fuck was he thinking, even _that_ sounded insane, what was he _doing_? 

Eames put food in front of Arthur and cleared his throat and Arthur braced himself and Eames said, “It’s snowing.”

Arthur glanced out the window, and it was indeed snowing, the flakes thick and business-like. These were serious snowflakes. The light was gray and flat and Arthur was no expert but he was fairly sure Vermont was settling in to get battered. They wouldn’t let him take the plane in this weather. 

Arthur looked back at Eames and wondered if this was the cause of Eames’s mood. “I can get a hotel somewhere,” he said. “If you think—”

“What?” asked Eames swiftly, sounding stricken. “Why? Do you want to go? I thought you wanted to—”

“If you’re having second thoughts—”

“I’m not.” Eames shook his head and sat down opposite him and looked at him pleadingly, eyes wide and desperate. “I’m not having second thoughts. I want you to stay. Do you want to stay?” 

Arthur wanted to stay. Arthur wanted…a lot of things. Arthur wanted a completely different life. He had always wanted a completely different life. He would never have thought that life was in Vermont, but…Arthur could not remember the last time he’d felt this way, like air was light and easy to breathe, like laughter was plentiful and effortless, like there was something worthwhile—something to be _cherished_ —about this whole earthly mess. 

Arthur stared at Eames and thought of how he could put that into words. He settled for, “I’m going to miss bagels a lot, eventually.” 

Eames choked out a startled laugh, and then said, “Even with the good sex?” 

“Sex isn’t the equivalent of a good bagel, Eames,” said Arthur, just to keep Eames smiling instead of looking frantic the way he had been, just because Arthur liked to see him smiling, liked to have _caused_ him smiling. Arthur didn’t normally provoke smiles; Arthur normally provoked mockery or dread or irritation, and that was what had to happen if he wanted to do his job properly but Eames just _smiled_ at him, made him feel like he was something delightful that deserved all those smiles, and Arthur knew this was all make-believe but he wanted to stay and play house for a little while longer. 

And Eames kept smiling. Eames picked up Arthur’s hand and kissed the knuckle the way he had the night before in bed. Eames said slowly, watching his fingers trace patterns over Arthur’s palm, “If I gave you my tree, would that—”

“This isn’t about the tree,” Arthur said firmly, because he wanted to make sure Eames knew that. 

“I know.” Eames glanced up, looking relieved enough that Arthur thought no, he _hadn’t_ known. “But you have a very busy and important job with people who barely give you time to eat or sleep, so what can I do to make sure you don’t have to go back yet?” 

It wasn’t work that kept him from eating and sleeping, thought Arthur. He had been a poor, fitful sleeper his entire life. These past two nights with Eames were a curious anomaly that Arthur didn’t know what to make of. And, as for eating, well, you fell into the habit of missing meals when your meals were only for one. 

Arthur said, instead of any of that, another truth. “I’m going to have to go back eventually.” 

“Right,” Eames said, after a moment. 

“I want you to come with me.” Arthur didn’t realize how much he meant that until he said it. _That_ was the ending, he thought; there would be no ending. They would leave Vermont together and start again in New York. They’d come up here to steal weekends. It would work. 

Eames was staring across at him, and Arthur couldn’t really read his expression. 

Arthur said falteringly, “New York is fantastic. It really is. Have you ever been?” 

“Yes. A lot. I lived there for a while.” 

“Oh,” said Arthur, and wondered if Eames had hated New York, if that was why he had left. Arthur hesitated, then decided to try to lighten the mood with, “It would have been convenient to have met you while we were both in the city.” 

“It would have been,” agreed Eames, looking very intently at Arthur. He didn’t seem inclined to lighten the mood. He peered at Arthur and said morosely, “Why doesn’t life ever go that way?” 

“Eames, what’s wrong?” asked Arthur sternly, pulling his hand out of Eames’s and straightening in his chair. Because Eames had been off all morning and there was something about the way Eames was looking at him that was frightening him and then he had said something like _that_. 

“I think there’s something I have to tell you,” Eames said slowly. “I don’t _want_ to tell you. I don’t know why I’m telling you. I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. But why did I tell you my name? Why did I—” Eames tore his hands through his hair, looking down at the table. “Fuck, Arthur, do you know how many years I’ve been doing this and how good I am at this and I have never before felt like I needed to—fuck.” 

Arthur stared at him, feeling icy cold suddenly, like it had started snowing inside. Even his lips felt numb as he made himself speak. “Good at what, Eames? What are you doing?” 

Eames stopped tearing his hands through his hair and looked up at Arthur and took a deep breath. “I’m not Ronald Berry.” 

***

For a long moment after Eames said it, Arthur did nothing more than look at Eames evenly, expressionlessly, blinking thoughtfully. And Eames wanted to take it back. Why had he _said_ it? Why had he laid in bed next to Arthur the night before and watched him sleep and felt so uncharacteristically protective? Him, who had been a loner his entire life? Who had never even had a _friend_? And had never wanted one, and then there was Arthur, and Eames had thought, _I want him to know everything, I want him to know me, and to look at me, and choose me, knowing it’s me, and love me._

Eames had lost his fucking mind. 

Eventually Arthur said, “Not Ronald Berry?” 

Eames shook his head. 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Then who are you?”

“Eames,” Eames said. 

“What the fuck,” Arthur said, a little biting now. “That doesn’t answer anything.”

“My name is Eames—”

“First name or last name?” 

“Kind of both,” Eames answered, after a moment. 

“Like you’re fucking _Cher_?” said Arthur. 

“It’s complicated,” Eames said desperately. “This whole thing is so fucking complicated.” 

“I don’t understand why,” Arthur bit out. “I came here because Ronald Berry owns this cabin. Does Ronald Berry own this cabin?” 

“Yes,” said Eames. 

“So if you’re not Ronald Berry—if you’re Eames—why are you in this cabin?” 

“Ronald Berry is 87 years old and lives in a nursing home facility outside Boston.” 

“And you know him how?” 

“I don’t,” said Eames haltingly. 

“So you’ve just stolen his cabin, is what you’re saying.” 

“I send him things,” Eames said, in shoddy of defense of himself. “Treats and stuff. Little thank-yous. I’m going to send him a bunch of money.”

“So he knows you’re here?” Arthur lifted a skeptical eyebrow at Eames. 

Eames shook his head. “But it’s not like I’m stealing it from him. He’s not using it, obviously. It was sitting here empty. I’m not sure his kids don’t even know about it, since they never come out here. His kids are pretty horrible. And I needed someplace to lay low.” 

“Oh, fuck,” said Arthur, staring at him. “You _are_ a murderer.” 

Eames wished he could just deny that. “It’s not that simple,” he said helplessly, because he didn’t know what else to say. 

Arthur kept staring at him. Then he said, “Wait, you’re serious. You _have_ killed someone.” 

Eames closed his eyes and swore silently and opened them again. “I had to, he—”

“You’re hiding out here because you’re wanted for murder,” said Arthur. 

“Not really. I’m telling you, it’s complicated—”

“Complicated?” Arthur repeated. “ _Complicated_?” Arthur stood. “You think the appropriate adjective for all of this is _complicated_?” 

“Yes?” suggested Eames hesitantly. 

“Fuck you,” Arthur said furiously. “Do you think I run around doing things like this? Do you know what it took for me to…for me to…not let myself overthink all the fucking things wrong with what I was doing? And now you turn out to be a murderous liar with a stupid Cher name, and you call this _complicated_?” Arthur marched toward the door. 

“It _is_ complicated,” Eames said, rising to follow him. “Do you think I intended to do all of this? To let you in and then _tell_ you all of this?” 

“It isn’t even your fucking tree to deny me!” Arthur shouted at him, his hand on the doorknob. 

“Fuck the bloody sodding fucking tree,” Eames snapped. “Who gives a fuck about America’s fucking Christmas tree?” 

“You knew it wasn’t your tree. You could have said, ‘Sorry, I’m just the caretaker here, you’d have to ask Ronald Berry.’”

“I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, Arthur. What do you not understand about ‘I’m trying to lay low’?”

“Oh, sorry my criminal instincts aren’t good enough for you, I’ve never been on the run from a murder rap before, I don’t know how it’s supposed to go.” Arthur pulled the door open. 

“You don’t have your coat,” Eames pointed out. 

“I don’t want my coat,” Arthur retorted. 

The wind was gusting through the doorway, bringing with it a healthy amount of swirling snowflakes, and while they’d been arguing the snow had picked up. Visibility was down to nothing. Eames grabbed Arthur’s arm before he could step outside and disappear into the storm. “You’ll freeze to death,” he told him between gritted teeth. 

“I am not a complete idiot,” Arthur said, trying to shake his grip off. “I can get to my car—”

“You’ll—” Eames never knew what it was afterward that tipped him off. He supposed it was a lifetime of instincts. Maybe they’d been dulled by the fact that he was in the middle of the argument with Arthur but they were reliable enough that Eames’s eyes widened a half-second before it all went to hell. Eames threw his weight into his hand on Arthur’s arm, propelling him back into the house. 

“What—” Arthur started furiously, stumbling off balance. 

And then the shots started ringing out. 

Eames used their momentum to crash Arthur to the ground and sprawl over him, trying to shield his body, and then he slammed the door shut. The bullets thudded against the door, but Eames had reinforced the door. Eames had reinforced _everything_. Eames wasn’t stupid. 

Except for the fact that Eames had been ignoring his surveillance systems, caught up in Arthur. 

Arthur was still and silent underneath him, until the bullets stopped firing. 

Then, when Eames crawled off of him, he rolled over and looked at him and said breathlessly, “What the actual fuck?”

“I killed a mobster, okay?” Eames snapped at him, crawling quickly over to the place in front of the fireplace where the latch was hidden for the hollowed-out cache of weapons. Eames dug through them, looking for his preferred gun. 

“You’ve got an arsenal,” Arthur said in astonishment, crawling over next to Eames. 

“I’m a thief,” Eames said, speaking quickly as he laid out guns, checking their preparedness. “I am not a murderer. I can handle a gun, yes, because I don’t run in great circles. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I’m a very good thief and I just pulled off the heist of my life and I’ve got eighty million dollars waiting in various off-shore accounts for me if only I can figure out a way to get the rest of the Gurev cabal off my back.” 

“Why’d you kill the mobster?” Arthur asked, sounding very matter-of-fact. 

Eames glanced at him. He was watching Eames’s hands over the guns. “I fenced a painting I stole from him. It’s where the eighty million came from. He wasn’t happy about that.” 

“Why’d you steal the painting from him?”

“For the eighty million dollars,” Eames replied evenly.

“No,” Arthur said calmly, “why did you steal it from _him_ instead of a museum? Did you have to steal it from a mobster?”   
“He’s a prick who acquired the money for the painting through trafficking in twelve-year-old girls. So yes. I had to steal it from him. I’m not sorry I killed him, Arthur. I mean, I’m sorry I had to kill someone, but I’m not sorry, if I had to kill someone, that I killed _him_.” 

“They know it was you, and they’ve tracked you here. How do you expect to get this Gurev cabal off your back? Because it seems to me that you’re a dead man walking.” 

Eames stared at him. “Thanks, Arthur. That’s very supportive. This has been a very uplifting conversation.” 

“Eames,” said Arthur, after a second. “The painting you fenced. Was it a Rothko?” 

Eames’s hands stopped moving. Eames looked up at Arthur. “What?” 

“It was a fucking forgery,” Arthur said. “You sold Saito a fucking forgery. For eighty million dollars.” 

“Well,” said Eames, after a moment, “that sort of painting belongs in a museum, not in—hang on, _Saito_ bought it?” 

“Saito, as in my boss. As in my ultimate boss. Who’s been looking for you, incidentally.” 

“Great. So now you want to kill me, too.” 

“I don’t want to kill you. If Saito wants to be buying paintings from mobsters, he should be doing his own dirty work. He got what he deserved. I’m pissed because you told me you wouldn’t sell the tree for anything less than a hundred million, when eighty would have let you break even.” 

Eames paused. “Well, Arthur, I have to make some profit here.” 

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes and held out a hand. “Give me a gun.” 

Eames stared at him. “What’s happening here?” 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Arthur said. “But you have nice eyes and a nice smile and you make me laugh and I like the way I feel when I’m around you. So give me a gun and thank Santa Claus for the fact that my job isn’t always negotiating for Christmas trees.” 

Later, Eames watched Arthur’s well-tailored suits and sharp-edged lethalness and thought, _So this is what a Christmas miracle looks like._

***

Arthur’s head was a blur of to-do checklist items and the roads were treacherous and visibility was less than zero and all in all he was pleased that Eames was silent in the passenger seat, even though he also knew that they had a great deal to discuss, probably starting with the fact that Arthur knew absolutely everything there was to know when it came to handling a Glock. 

Eames, though, was a good person to have to be caught in a shoot-out with. Viciously efficient, comfortingly unsentimental, highly practical. And very good at running, which was ninety percent of surviving a shoot-out. 

Arthur drove through the nearest town and the town after that. He let up on the gas pedal a little bit when his rear-view mirror stayed empty. Not that he’d be able to see anyone tailing them until they were right on top of them, but surely this weather would deter people. Surely they’d assume the weather would deter _him_. 

When Arthur reached Burlington and got them to a hotel, the hotel employees looked shocked to see them walk in, without luggage, not really dressed for the weather. 

“Were you out driving in _this_?” asked the woman at the front desk, clearly amazed. 

“I need two rooms,” Arthur said, because he didn’t want to presume they should have one. “Adjoining.” 

“Can I see some—”

Eames slid a Canadian passport across the desk, and Arthur didn’t say anything, but he silently bet the hundred-million-dollar price tag of the tree that that wasn’t Eames’s real passport. 

The check-in process completed, they rode in silence in the elevator and then walked in silence to their rooms and then Arthur walked into his room and walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. 

He glanced out the window but the snow was too thick to even see the street. Arthur texted Cobb that he was going to need the plane as soon as possible. Then he tossed the phone on the bed and took a deep breath and knocked on the door that linked his room to Eames’s. 

Eames opened it immediately. “Look,” he said, “I think we should talk about—”

“No,” Arthur said, and stepped into his personal space and fisted his hand in Eames’s shirt and kissed him as hard as he could. He didn’t want finesse; he wanted to devour Eames. 

Luckily Eames seemed to be in the same mood, because Eames kissed back with the same bite. 

***

“Okay,” Eames said, sweaty and panting and flopped down next to Arthur on the disgusting bedspread. “Can we talk _now_?” 

“No,” said Arthur, pushing at the bedspread so he could pull a pillow out from underneath it and press it over his head. 

Eames regarded him, and then swept his hand down the shapely length of Arthur’s back, settling his palm on Arthur’s delectable arse. “Alright. So I suppose we’ll just wait here in silence until we can both get it up again?” 

Arthur didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then Arthur said, “Do you think this pillow’s giving me lice? Do you think that’s possible?” 

Eames took the pillow away from him and looked at Arthur’s face and thought how well he’d felt like he knew him, until the moment when Arthur had put a gun in his hand and turned toward the bullets. His face had seemed so familiar, until the moment when suddenly he had been reminded that he hadn’t known him that long. “Who are you?” Eames asked, not angry so much as curious. “Really?” 

Arthur snorted. “That’s rich coming from you, Mr. Berry.” 

“I told you who I am. I told you everything about me. Are you, like, CIA or something?” 

“No.” Arthur sighed and rolled onto his side. His hair was tumbling forward over his forehead and he looked oddly young and Eames experienced the same twitch of protectiveness Arthur seemed to inspire in him, to tuck him up against him and keep the rest of the world out. “I told you. I work for Saito. Sometimes I negotiate stupid Christmas trees. Sometimes I do a lot of other things.” 

Eames turned this over in his head. “A jack of all trades?” he suggested. 

“A point man,” Arthur said. “Remember? Saito’s point.” 

“But your boss is that prick Cobb.” 

“You haven’t even met Cobb.” 

“He didn’t care if you were dead or not.” 

“He would have cared. But it’s fine, he is a bit of a prick. And yes, he’s technically my direct boss. He’s, you know, my mentor.” 

“Oh,” said Eames. “One of _those_.” 

“What?” asked Arthur. 

“The people with connections who open up the doors for the people who can actually get things done.” 

“Cobb’s fine,” said Arthur. “Why are we talking about Cobb? I don’t like to talk about Cobb when I’m naked.” 

Eames smiled and leaned over to press a kiss behind Arthur’s ear. He said, “Thank you, darling.” 

“For what?” 

“Saving our lives back there.” 

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” said Arthur. “I texted Cobb. As soon as the weather clears, we’ll take the plane to New York.”

“New York?” 

“And then we’ll figure out what to do next. But I’d like some distance, and I’d like some home turf advantage. Sorry, but I’m not great at running point in Vermont. I haven’t done enough research.” 

Eames wanted to say, _When did this become your problem?_ Eames wanted to say, _This is why you don’t sleep enough, isn’t it?_

Eames said, “Start spreading the news,” and kissed Arthur softly, sweetly, until Arthur hummed with pleasure and shifted closer to him. 

***

Eames would have liked to leave Arthur something. Something deep and meaningful and profound. But Eames had brought only the bare minimum out of the cabin with him, and it wasn’t like he was going to run out into the snowstorm to purchase Arthur a good-bye gift. He didn’t want Arthur to realize he was saying good-bye, of course.

Because Arthur wouldn’t let him. Arthur would take him to New York. Arthur would come up a plan to save him. This was what Arthur did: Arthur ran point. And Arthur would put himself into danger, literally walk into bullets, on Eames’s behalf. Eames had already watched him do it once, had watched him drive recklessly several miles on mountain roads in a snowstorm, all for the sake of Eames. 

Eames hadn’t meant to do this. Eames was once again reminded of why it was he had been a loner his entire life. He had momentarily thought that could change, recklessly asked if he could keep Arthur. But he was too dangerous. He took lovely things like Arthur and broke them. 

So Eames didn’t say good-bye. Eames didn’t brush a kiss into Arthur’s hair. Eames didn’t let himself linger in bed, watching Arthur sleep. Eames didn’t give himself the opportunity to lose his nerve. 

Eames stepped out the hotel room door. 

***

Arthur didn’t go to work. 

Arthur went to a shooting range and spent a lot of clips imagining he was shooting at Eames’s stupid, _stupid_ face. 

Kevin at the shooting range said, “Wow. You okay?” 

Arthur glared at him. 

He had fifteen missed phone calls from Cobb. Arthur texted him, _Pick another tree. Make Ariadne go get it._

Then he went home and changed his clothes and went for a run until he was almost collapsing in Central Park. Then he limped his way home and into the shower, where he absolutely did not stand with his head under the spray and his eyes squeezed shut, feeling sorry for himself. 

Arthur knew what he could do. He could tell Saito he’d met the forger who’d ripped him off. Saito could bring the full power of all of his shady connections down. Eames was good at disappearing—they hadn’t been able to find the forger before Arthur had happened to stumble into him, after all—but Arthur knew what he looked like now, knew what they were looking for. Eames probably knew how to disguise himself, but they had something to work off of. After all, Arthur knew Eames had started in Vermont, in a snowstorm, while Arthur had been sprawled in bed fucking sleeping like a stupid fucking trusting idiot. 

Arthur got out of the shower and wondered if he should eat something. That seemed like effort. He dropped onto his couch and glanced at his phone. Cobb had answered his text. _???? I’ve been calling to congratulate you on getting the tree! At a bargain price, too!_

Arthur frowned at the text and looked at his watch. Still work hours, he was surprised to see, and then not surprised at all. This was the world’s fucking longest day. 

And he didn’t want to rise what was apparently Eames’s bait, but he found himself going into work. 

“Arthur!” Ariadne exclaimed, leaping up to basically bounce next to him as he walked to Cobb’s office. “Did you have a good couple of days in Vermont?” 

“They were miserable,” Arthur said flatly, and knocked on Cobb’s door. 

Ariadne blinked in surprise. “They were…what?” 

“Come in!” Cobb called, and Arthur walked in, Ariadne trailing after him. 

“Arthur!” Cobb boomed enthusiastically. “The man of the hour!” 

“You got the tree?” said Arthur. 

Cobb had the same reaction to his tone that Ariadne had had, blinking at him. “Yeah, didn’t you—”

“How do you know you got the tree?” 

“Ronald Berry’s son called me,” Cobb said. “He said our representative made him an offer for a tree and told him to call me. That wasn’t you?” 

“Ronald Berry’s son?” echoed Ariadne. “He had a son?” 

Eames had walked out of his hotel room without saying good-bye, Arthur thought, but Eames had sent him his tree as a parting gift. Like he had given a fuck about America’s fucking Christmas tree. 

“Arthur?” Cobb prodded him, looking at him like he was having a nervous breakdown. 

“What’s next?” Arthur asked abruptly. 

“What?” said Cobb. 

“You got your tree. So what’s next?” He needed something to do or he was going to go absolutely insane.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Outside his window was nothing but Christmas carols. Endlessly. The rehearsals were constant. Arthur felt like opening his window and shouting out, _How much more can it possibly snow? You’ve let it snow several thousand times already!_ But his window didn’t open, so he couldn’t do that. 

Ariadne poked her head in. “Hey, we’re going to run to pick up some sushi. Want to join?” 

“Why aren’t these offices sound-proofed?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the window, where they were taking _Let It Snow_ from the top. 

Ariadne looked at him for a second, then she stepped into his office and closed the door behind her. 

“No,” Arthur said immediately. 

“No. You keep saying no, but I think we need to talk. What happened in Vermont?” 

“Nothing happened in Vermont, Ariadne. It was stupid. Don’t worry about it.” 

“You fell off the grid and came back snarling and you haven’t let the fur down on your back since.” 

“What is that even supposed to mean? I’m not a cat, Ari.”

“More like a tiger. Sometimes. What, did he turn out to be an asshole?” 

The problem was that it hadn’t been anything as simple as that. Eames had turned out to be entirely unexpected. Eames had made him laugh more in two days than he had laughed in months prior. Eames had kissed him like he was something amazing and remarkable. Eames had made him feel…at rest, in a way Arthur had forgotten the world could feel, like there was nothing beyond the room that mattered, as long as Eames kept looking at him the way Eames looked at him, kept touching him, kept smiling at him, kept calling him _darling_ like he was something endearing, something to be…something to be…loved. 

Eames had asked him to stay.

And Arthur had been all-in, Arthur had had swirling plans about bringing Eames to New York and asking what he wanted, about finding him a job with Saito, who was always looking for forgers, or about maybe coming up with a different plan together, a plan somewhere else, in a city Eames possibly preferred. Eames had asked him to _stay_.

Eames had gotten Arthur to go all-in, and then Eames had walked away from the table. 

“Yeah,” said Arthur grimly. _As long as you love me so_ , said the lyrics outside Arthur’s window. “He turned out to be an asshole.” 

***

The tree arrived, with a great deal of fanfare. Ronald Berry’s son and daughter came to New York, beaming, acting like celebrities as they waved to the cameras. Saito gave some welcoming speech about keeping America’s cheerful season bright, or something. Arthur managed not to roll his eyes. He also managed to lightly threaten the son and daughter to make sure some of the tree windfall went to their father’s medical bills. They said, blankly, that the first representative had already negotiated for that. 

When Arthur got back to his office, this was an envelope on his desk that hadn’t been there before. Unmarked in any way. 

After a long moment of regarding it, Arthur picked it up and opened it, and out dropped a Scrabble tile. _I_. 

***

Eames was in Phoenix. The sun was glaring and the temperature was so high that it should have been fictional. Eames sat in the darkest bar he could find and drank beer after beer until it was finally time for him to say to the bartender, “Can we watch the tree get lit?” 

The bartender stared at him. 

“You know,” Eames said, gesturing to the television. “The Saito Center Christmas tree. America’s Christmas tree.” He didn’t know why he hadn’t just stayed in his room to watch it by himself. But something struck Eames as pathetic about that. Pathetic to sit all alone and moon after the man you walked out on. 

Less pathetic to do it in public. Sure. That’s what he told himself. 

The bartender shrugged and switched the station for him. It wasn’t like the bar was crowded. 

Eames sat and watched an interminable amount of horrible holiday performances, and finally at the end Saito gave some kind of speech, and there, in the background, Eames spotted Arthur, looking slick and sharp and put-together and not at all like the man who had dimpled at Eames, who had curled close to him, who had flirted and teased. 

Eames said to the bartender, as the lights flashed and sparkled over America’s Christmas tree, “You can change it now.” 

***

“Arthur,” said Saito, very seriously. 

Arthur made himself focus on what Saito was saying. Arthur pushed out of his mind the fact that there had been another Scrabble tile in another unmarked envelope on his desk. _L_. “Yes, sir,” he said. 

Saito gave him a little smile. “You have been very far away.” 

“Oh,” said Arthur, because yes, he had been, mentally, for a while now, ever since, well, Eames, and he knew it. “Sorry, I—”

“We work you very hard,” said Saito, shrewd eyes on him. 

“It’s fine,” said Arthur, because actually the last thing he wanted right now was free time. 

“You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Arthur, unsure what that had to do with anything. 

“And it’s Chanukah, and I just made you attend the lighting of a Christmas tree.”

“It isn’t quite Chanukah yet,” Arthur said, because it wasn’t. 

“Nevertheless, it’s been a busy season for you so far. Lots of emergencies. That questionable art deal gone bad, and I am aware you warned me not to make deals to steal things from Russian mobsters, and I didn’t listen. And then the tree situation. Thank you for all the hard work with the tree, by the way. Tell Cobb I’ve said he has to get by without you for a little while. Go home to your family. Enjoy your holiday with them.” 

“That’s not—” said Arthur. 

“Arthur.” Saito fixed him with that look people didn’t say no to. 

So Arthur nodded. 

***

Arthur drove upstate, a newly-arrived Scrabble tile tucked away in his pocket. _O_. Arthur parked at the cemetery. Arthur wended his way to the gravestone. And Arthur sat in the snow at the foot of the grave and looked at his parents’ names and ignored the fact that now he was wet and cold. 

Arthur said, “ _Chag Sameach_ , guys.” And then, after another moment, as the snow soaked into his pants, “I miss you.” 

***

Arthur’s aunts and uncles and cousins were absolutely delighted to see him. 

“Arthur!” exclaimed his aunt Ruth, as she descended upon him to embrace him warmly. “This is such a delightful surprise! Unless you called Sally. Did you call Sally and she didn’t tell me? Sally! Why didn’t you tell me Arthur was coming for a visit?” 

“No,” Arthur said, as his aunt Sally came bustling toward the front door. “It was a last-minute thing. Sorry to just drop in. I’ve brought, um, wine.” He gestured with it and hoped that was an acceptable offering for showing up unannounced on a doorstep. 

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” said Aunt Sally, barreling into a hug, and then taking the wine and handing it to Ruth. “Open Arthur’s wine. Everyone! Look who’s here! Arthur!”

Arthur was embarrassed by the fuss at the same time that it was nice that everyone at least remembered who he was. It wasn’t like he kept in very good touch. But the house was full of relatives who all happily welcomed Arthur in and food and drink was pressed upon him and he found himself drawn into a ridiculous debate about James Bond movies, and Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to a movie because that was how pathetic his life was but he had been raised on James Bond movies and it was nice to remember that. 

He ducked into the kitchen late, coat back on, finding his aunts leaning against the counters cradling coffees and chatting. 

“I’m taking off,” he said, and was startled when Aunt Sally suddenly turned to him and caught him up into a fierce hug. “Okay,” he said uncertainly, glancing at Aunt Ruth. 

“It’s just good to see you,” Aunt Sally said, and stepped away from him. “You know you can come to visit anytime. I mean, I know we’re not your mother, but…”

“I know,” said Arthur, and he felt guilty, but he also felt…tired. Unaccountably tired. Exhausted. He would kill for Eames to show up so he could crawl on top of him and take a nap. He saw his long sleepless life spreading ahead of him and couldn’t bear it. “Sorry, it’s just been…” He couldn’t think of an adjective for how it had been. “It’s been…” He made a vague gesture and hoped they would interpret it as they wished. 

“It’s a tough time of year,” said his aunt Ruth. 

His aunt Sally smiled at him and patted his cheek fondly. “How long are you staying?” 

“I don’t know,” said Arthur awkwardly. “I have some vacation time coming and I thought I would come up here, but I didn’t really plan it out.” 

“Stay,” said Aunt Ruth. “We’d love to have a proper visit. You can tell us all the glamorous things you do in New York.” 

“I don’t do anything glamorous in New York,” said Arthur. 

“Of course you do,” said Aunt Sally, smiling. “Your mother was always so proud of your New York life. Her Arthur, following his dreams.” Aunt Sally beamed at him. 

Her Arthur, he thought. Following his dreams. Whatever the fuck he was doing, he wasn’t following his dreams. 

“Who are you dating?” asked Aunt Ruth. “Shouldn’t you have a boyfriend in tow?” 

“Leave him alone,” Aunt Sally said, “or he’ll never come and visit us again. Don’t mind her, dear boy. Just ask her where her boyfriend is.” 

“Stop,” said Aunt Ruth, shoving Aunt Sally fondly. 

“She’s dating Jerry from down the road. You remember Jerry, don’t you?” 

He did remember Jerry. He couldn’t help the fact that he grinned at Aunt Ruth. “Jerry? Really?” 

“We don’t need to talk about it,” said Aunt Ruth, blushing. 

“Exactly,” said Aunt Sally, and turned to Arthur firmly. “Don’t let her bother you. You’re staying at the inn?”

Arthur nodded.

“Fine. Come tomorrow for breakfast, hmm? David will be here with the kids, so don’t even pretend like you would be any trouble.” 

“Fine,” Arthur relented. He had forgotten the energy it took to deal with her mother’s sisters. His mother had been like that, too, and he missed her now with an acute ache. 

“Good. We’ll see you then.” Aunt Sally gave him another hug, and kissed his cheek, and said, “Sweet dreams, little prince,” which was what his mother had used to say to him when he was a young boy and she was tucking him in. Arthur had almost forgotten all about that. 

***

Arthur got back to his room at the inn and kicked off his shoes and shed his coat and then couldn’t be bothered to exert any more effort. He crawled onto the bed and closed his eyes and wished he would just fall dreamlessly asleep. That was what he had always told his mother, fretful and fearful, beset by nightmares that drove him awake. _Sweet dreams, little prince_ , she would tell him, and it was a hope and a prayer, and he would squeeze his eyes shut and wish that she was right. _Sweet dreams._

He was like his father, she had said. Arthur remembered his father, a man who was always in a suit, who traveled a lot and brought Arthur gifts and always cuddled him warmly when he was around, making up for the time when he wasn’t. He had been killed in a car accident when Arthur was seven, and that was when the nightmares had started. He had never been a good sleeper—like his father—but he thought the nightmares were a later development. Mainly because what he could remember of the nightmares now was that they had been about losing his mother, too. 

Which, of course, he had done. Which meant he no longer had nightmares—those had all come true—but he had never lost his combative relationship with sleep. 

_Sweet dreams, little prince_ , his mother had said to him, and kissed his forehead and smoothed down his hair. _Follow your dreams. All your very best and sweetest dreams, sweetheart._

And it snowed, thick swirls of it that seemed to choke him, and he fought his way through it, while it sucked at his feet like quicksand. 

“This way,” someone called to him urgently. “This way. _Arthur_.” 

Arthur stumbled through a door in the ground and found himself on a beach. With Eames. 

“You’ve been lost,” Eames told him. He was smirking at him, self-satisfied and smug. Arthur wanted to punch him; Arthur wanted to kiss him. 

“I haven’t been,” Arthur denied automatically. “I was…It was snowing. It was snowing.” 

Eames stepped closer to him, leaned down to brush his nose up Arthur’s neck. “You’re wearing wingtips. On the beach.” 

“Snowing,” said Arthur, closing his hands into Eames’s hair. “It was snowing. Why did you leave?”

“Did you stay?” asked Eames into his skin. 

“Yes, I stayed! You’re the one who—” 

And then it was snowing again. No, wait, was that a sandstorm? It pelted at Arthur’s face. He flinched and squinted through it, looking for Eames. “Eames!” he shouted. “ _Eames_!” He turned in a circle, and all around him there was nothing. Nothingness. He was utterly alone. He wasn’t even sure he was still on the beach. He wasn’t even sure he was still on the _planet_. He felt like he had been abandoned by gravity itself. 

“Arthur!” 

He heard his name at a great distance, but it was definitely his name, and he was sure it was Eames saying it. He took a deep breath and shoved his way through the flying sand. It was like swimming against a riptide. He grabbed handfuls of sand and pushed them out of his way, trying to clear his path. _Eames_ , he tried to say, but sand filled his mouth when he opened it. 

“Arthur! This way! Hurry! I’m waiting!” 

_Wait for me_ , Arthur tried to say. _Don’t leave me_ , Arthur tried to say. _Don’t leave me and I won’t leave you._

Arthur woke up with a start, coughing reflexively, to his phone ringing. 

Outside the sun was bright. He’d slept the entire night. Maybe not dreamlessly but at least he’d slept. 

He took a deep breath to orient himself back in a world that was still and had no sand or snow or whatever the hell that had been trying to choke him. Then he reached for his phone. _Ariadne_ , it was blinking. 

He answered with, “Yeah,” wondering if this was about work. He almost hoped he could get his mind busy again. He didn’t want to have more dreams about Eames in sandstorms. He wanted his head filled with other things. 

“How’s home?” Ariadne asked, sounding like she had called to gossip. 

_I don’t have a home_ , Arthur almost said, because this room in an inn in a town populated by people he’d known ten years ago, as a different person, didn’t feel anything like home. Any more than his lonely and empty apartment in New York felt like home. But he said, looking at his watch and wincing, “It’s fine. Was there something you wanted?” 

“Grumpy, huh?” teased Ariadne. 

“I’ve got to go to my aunt’s for breakfast,” Arthur said, which was true. He rolled out of bed. “I’m already late.” 

“I won’t keep you. I just want you to know that you got another envelope.” 

Arthur froze in the process of choosing between cashmere sweaters in his suitcase. He said carefully, “What do you mean?” 

“You know. You get those secret envelopes. From your secret admirer.” 

“Are those you?” Arthur demanded harshly. He’d assumed they were Eames but now he realized how foolish that was. Why would Eames be sending him messages?

“No, they’re not me,” Ariadne retorted. 

“Are they going through you?” Arthur asked, shifting wildly toward desperate hope, because now he wanted to know: Was Eames in contact with her? What did he say about him? Did he miss him? 

“No. But I know you’ve been getting them. Security does keep track of what they send up to your office, you know.” 

“Where are they coming from?” Arthur asked. He was sitting on the bed now, sweater forgotten in his hand. 

“I think you know who they’re coming from,” said Ariadne knowingly. 

“Who’s delivering them? Is he delivering them? Is he in New York?” 

“Arthur, it seems to me that you’re the one he’s sending the puzzle to, not me. And, in case you want to know the next clue, it’s a V Scrabble tile.” 

_V_. Which meant Arthur now had in his possession _I L O V_. 

“Do you know what that means?” Ariadne asked into Arthur’s silence. “Does that make sense to you?” 

No, it didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. Eames had walked out and yet was sending him messages, luring him into a puzzle. If Eames wanted him, why didn’t Eames just… If Eames wanted him, why had Eames _left_? 

_I L O V_ , thought Arthur. Eames asking him to stay, asking him not to walk away. Eames, calling for him somewhere in a sandstorm. “Fucking idiot,” Arthur said out loud. 

“What?” asked Ariadne, startled. 

“I’ve got to go,” Arthur said, and hung up the phone. 

***

He dressed quickly, for the road, which meant a sharp suit and wingtips, and he thought Eames would laugh at him, but he needed to be wearing wingtips when he met Eames again, he couldn’t imagine meeting him wearing him anything else. 

He stopped at his parents’ gravestone and said, “Sorry I don’t visit more often. Aunt Ruth and Aunt Sally have made it clear I should come by more. I’m going to try to. I’ll bring Eames next time. You would have loved Eames. Well. Mom would have loved Eames. I don’t know, Dad, I feel like maybe you would have been skeptical about him. But he grows on you. Okay, that’s enough of me being an idiot. Bye.” He ran his fingers along the top of the gravestone, and then he drove to his aunt’s house. 

“Arthur,” Aunt Sally said, and she sounded surprised, and he wondered what he looked like. “Are you alright? Is something wrong?” 

“I need to take a raincheck on breakfast. I just wanted to tell you.” 

“Oh, Arthur,” she said, looking concerned. “I didn’t say anything to upset you, did I? Did Ruth?” 

Arthur shook his head. “No. It’s just that I have to go get my boyfriend.” 

“Oh,” said Aunt Sally, sounding caught between delight and confusion. 

But Arthur didn’t explain. Arthur kissed her cheek and dashed back to his car and pointed it east and thought, _Here I go. Following my very best and sweetest dreams._

***

The trickiest thing in the universe to do was to stay undetectable while at the same time leaving breadcrumbs for the one person you hoped might want to find you. Eames thought he had done a decent job of it, but you never knew. 

That was what he was thinking as he stood outside the door of the flat he’d taken and considered whether to open it. Eames knew there was someone in there. It might be Arthur. It might not be. 

And Eames decided that, either way, the only thing to do—his only option—was to walk in and meet his fate. His fate could be a gunshot wound to the chest or a very different sort of injury to his heart in the form of lethal dimples. Either way…this was, he thought, the culminating moment of his life, the fork that was going to dictate all of the rest of it.

Eames took a deep breath and opened the door. 

“What is this fucking awful tree?” asked Arthur, and gestured at the tabletop tree Eames had bought. 

He’d bought it because he’d been thinking of Arthur. He’d bought it because he couldn’t see a fucking Christmas tree anywhere without thinking of Arthur. He was hoping it was the same for Arthur. 

And now here was Arthur, frowning in a suit at his Christmas tree. 

“I couldn’t afford a nicer one,” Eames said, around the heart that had lodged in his throat. “They’re very expensive.” He closed the door behind him and started walking the few steps toward Arthur. 

Arthur looked up from his disapproving contemplation of the Christmas tree and said, “You were supposed to be on a beach.” 

This surprised Eames. “Was I?” 

“We’re in Boston. It’s freezing.” 

Eames drew to a stop next to Arthur and contemplated whether he should touch him or not. He was unsure. “It should be cold on Christmas.” 

“It isn’t Christmas yet.” 

“I know. Poor timing on your part. You couldn’t have come on Christmas Eve? You’d only have to wait a few extra days, and it would have been much more emotional and moving.” 

“What the fuck, Eames,” Arthur said harshly, but then softened the statement by taking the last step that put him up against Eames, his face tucked into the curve of Eames’s shoulder. 

Eames crushed Arthur to him and took the first deep breath he’d felt like he’d taken in ages. “I’m a selfish bastard,” he said. “I wanted to keep you safe, but I missed you and I thought maybe if you really wanted to you could—”

“I can take care of myself,” Arthur said into Eames’s neck. “I can even take care of _you_ , which is apparently quite the job.” 

Eames squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the feel of Arthur in his arms. “I didn’t want you to—to make me your problem, and—I can’t—have nice things, Arthur, I’m not good at it, I destroy them, and I don’t—you should—” _I wanted you to look at me and see me and know exactly how I am, exactly what you’re getting into, exactly how horrible and undeserving I can be, and want me anyway. I had to make you choose me, knowing everything about me._ But Eames didn’t say that. Eames faltered flailingly. 

Arthur shifted so he could lift his head and look at Eames, his dark eyes hot. “What makes you think I’m fragile?” he demanded. 

Eames shook his head. “Not fragile, just…the loveliest thing I’ve ever gotten to touch.” And Eames had stolen some of the greatest masterpieces ever created. None of them held a candle to Arthur. 

Arthur framed his face with his hands. “What makes you think I don’t want to be destroyed? What makes you think I don’t want you to take my boring, pointless life and fucking smash it open?” 

Eames opened his mouth to answer and found that, well, he had no rejoinder to that. 

“What was your Scrabble message going to be?” Arthur asked him. 

Eames met Arthur’s eyes and said, as solemnly and seriously as he had ever said anything, “I love you.” 

Arthur stared at him for a very long moment, and Eames would have worried about not getting an immediate reply, except that all of the reply Eames needed was in Arthur’s bright eyes. Arthur said finally, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m going to give your score a penalty for that.” 

“Yeah,” Eames agreed. 

“Unless you can find a way to make it filthy,” said Arthur, and kissed him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the rest of your Christmas season! And thank you for taking this Christmas journey with Arthur, Eames, and me! I hope you have a very happy 2016!

Epilogue

_One Year Later_

“What,” asked Eames in delight, “is this fucking awful Christmas tree?” 

Arthur looked vaguely embarrassed at the spindly little thing he’d set up on the table in their room. “It’s the best I could find.” 

“We’re on a tropical island, pet,” Eames pointed out. “At your insistence. They don’t really do Christmas trees. At least, not pine ones.” 

“I know. But you celebrated my holiday with me and an entire army of my relatives. I thought the least I could do was put in some effort.” 

“Yeah, Chanukah was exhausting,” Eames agreed solemnly. “I’m probably going to have to demand a large number of blowjobs to make up for it.” 

“Shut up,” Arthur said. “Do you want to trim your fucking tree or not?” 

“Arthur, you are so full of Christmas spirit, I’m surprised little children don’t mistake you for Santa Claus.” 

“Fucking prick,” Arthur declared, and produced from a bag strings of light and garish ornaments that made Eames feel giddy. 

“Darling, the ornaments are _hideous_ ,” he said, sitting on the floor and peering at the boxes. “You’ve even found a paisley one!” 

“Well, it’s your tree,” Arthur said, ears pink. “I wanted it to reflect that. Can you help me with these lights, please?” 

Eames looked up at Arthur, looking very engrossed in trying to place the string of lights just so on the tiny pathetic Christmas tree. Arthur, who had kept him alive this year. Arthur, who had beckoned him down the best direction when he’d come to that fork in his life’s road. Arthur, who a year ago he could never even have imagined. People like Arthur existed. Who knew? People like Arthur existed and claimed to love him. _Who knew?_

Arthur stepped back from the tree, tipping his head. “How’s that look?” 

Eames looked at Arthur and said, “Incredible.” 

Arthur caught his tone, looked at him, and smiled. Just smiled. Dimples glorious and unclouded. _Arthur’s Eames_ , Arthur’s relatives had called him, and Eames thought now, _Eames’s Arthur._

Eames said, “I want you to lay on the table under the tree in nothing but a bow on Christmas morning.” 

“No,” said Arthur, leaning down to pluck up a box of ornaments. 

“But, darling, all I want for Christmas is you.” 

“You are the sappiest, cheesiest person I know,” said Arthur, putting an ornament on the tree, “and I have no idea why I ever let you into my pants.” 

Eames reached for him, pulled at him, and Arthur went, unresisting, until Eames got him backward onto the floor with him, messily draped half across him. Eames kissed the side of his neck and said, “I’ve got eighty million bucks in off-shore accounts, remember?” Eighty million dollars, free and clear, and a Rothko that they had convinced Saito donate showily to a museum, winning lots of brownie points with the art community for future exploitation; Eames had let him keep the forgery, which he thought was very generous, frankly, because it was a bloody good forgery. 

And how Arthur had pulled off the magic trick of delivering to Eames everything he’d ever wanted in one fell swoop, Eames would never truly understand, but he was going to spend the rest of their lives making sure Arthur knew how grateful he was that the particular Christmas (or Chanukah) miracle of Arthur had occurred in Eames’s life. Thank Christ America had a fucking Christmas tree. 

“Oh, that’s right,” said Arthur. “The eighty million dollars. That must be it. Eight million red-blooded American dollars. Not your poncey British money.” 

“Poncey?” said Eames delighted. 

“Poncey,” Arthur confirmed, squirming to turn around so he could straddle Eames’s lap. “Absolutely ridiculous.” 

“Have I told you lately how much I love your dirty talk?” Eames asked him. 

Arthur’s eyes, bright and affectionate, laughed at him. “No, you’ve been terrible at seducing me lately.” 

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I don’t know why you stay with me.” 

“The eighty million dollars,” Arthur reminded him, finding his way into Eames’s pants. 

“Right,” Eames managed. 

Arthur kissed him. Arthur murmured, “Merry Christmas, Ronald Berry.” 

“Ho ho ho,” Eames replied. 

“That’s not sexy,” Arthur said. 

“Triple word score,” Eames insisted. 

“Penalty,” Arthur retorted. 

So Eames took off Arthur’s shirt and said the filthiest thing he could think of. “I love you.” 

 

_The End._


End file.
